The Precious
by DazzledIn2008
Summary: Birthday present for MaBarberElla: the story of a woman at Comic-Con 2011 and meeting the man of her dreams.


"**The Precious"**  
><strong>A Birthday Drabble (maybe a little longer than a drabble?) for MaBarberElla<strong>

**A/N: Saturday, February 4 is MaBarberElla's birthday (send her a PM or a tweet at MaBarberElla!), and I wanted to do something special for her. She is SO supportive of me, of everything I write, plus she's a complete and total perv, so we get along quite well. Also (and if you already read my stuff, you know this story already), she dragged me kicking and screaming into the world of slash, and now I fucking WRITE it. So thank her for **_**that**_**.**

**I wrote this with a steno pad and a pencil, standing in line Friday morning at the cafeteria at work, waiting for them to cook my breakfast. 800 words in like 20 minutes. Hand to God. True story. It was crazy.**

**So M - honey, I love you... and this is for you. I hope you like it ;)**

******Disclaimer: All things "Twilight" belong to Stephanie Meyer. The remainder of the perversion is all mine. :)******

* * *

><p>I'm at the San Diego Convention Center, Comic-Con 2011, standing in line waiting to see him. <em>Him<em>. If you are reading this, I don't need to explain who that is. You _know_.

It's me, and a thousand other people, mostly girls and women, like me, plucked from the sun and heat outside, and handed this amazing opportunity. And we are all thinking the same damn thing... again, I shouldn't have to explain.

I'm nervously shifting my weight from foot to foot, anxious for my turn. I take a step forward as the line in front of me moves, agonizingly slowly.

They took my cell, so I can't even call my friends to obsess, to have them talk me down off the ledge while I wait. But I called them after I was selected... screaming, breathless, hysterical calls around the country, and they shared in my glee, living vicariously through me.

And no pics either. But no problem. This moment will be indelibly ingrained in my brain for the rest of my life. Raw fantasy material for the bank. I can't fucking wait.

I take another step forward, craning my neck, and then... it happens. The skies open up, a single ray of sunshine points down at him, birds are chirping, choirs of children singing... time stops...

I can see him. My heart pounds, and I lose the ability to speak.

Holy fucking Christ in heaven. And every other curse that I can possibly imagine that will equally send me to Hell when I die.

He is so goddamned beautiful. Like, literally physically _painfully _beautiful. Like if you look at him with your bare eyes, you'll be blinded for eternity, your eye sockets filled with ash, or salt, or some other biblical substance. He's even more beautiful than his pictures, his movies, if that's possible. Even with half of his hair gone, shaved off for a movie he's filming.

I want to touch him.

I want to lick him.

I want to make him come for me, hear him scream my name. More than once, if he lets me.

But most of all, at that moment, I just want to _talk _to him and not sound like a complete fucking tool. I want to say something incredibly witty and sharp and intelligent and ironic and obscure. Something to make him notice me, so that I stand out from the crowd. I want him to think to himself, "Now, _she's _different."

Fuck. It's almost my turn and all I can think of is, "Nice hair." That and, "I'm your biggest fan!" What a fucking douche I am! _Think_!

Two more people.

I talk to the other guy, the young one, the one that looks like a baby llama, and then to _her, _the monochromatic, talentless, lucky-ass bitch that he's currently fucking, but I'm just going through the motions, waiting for my turn, for the ultimate moment in time. My husband is gonna get so fucking lucky after this.

One person.

He's two feet away. I feel like I can smell him, like I _should _be able to smell him based on all the pervy fanfics I read, but I actually can't, and I'm a little disappointed.

The person in front of me moves aside.

And it's my turn.

I step in front of him, and he smiles, those clear, green eyes burning into mine.

My panties combust, right there on the spot, and I say _something_, but I don't even remember what. I mean, shit! I'm a witty, intelligent, sarcastic woman. I should be able to do this, and my moment, my one chance, is passing, and I can't fucking control it. Like smoke through my fingers, it's slipping away.

He holds up his Sharpie to give me his autograph, and I panic because I stupidly didn't bring anything for him to sign.

Being the sensitive, all-knowing ladies man that he is, he apparently senses my dilemma and gently grabs my hand, holding it in his, flipping it palm side up. Holy fuck, he's _touching _me, and it's electric - _just like in the books_- and he grins. He writes something in my palm with the Sharpie, the sensation causing tingles in my nether regions, and tells me thanks. He seems so genuine, so warm.

So fucking _hot_.

And that's it. It's over. Just like that.

I'm moved aside, pushed along in line, my moment, over. I stand to the side, in the early stages of shock, and slowly open my palm to see what he wrote.

_**323-555-4593 - Call me - Rob**_

I blink, twice. I read it again. And again. And again. It can't be, I must be dreaming, I think to myself. But it's right there, melting away in my sweaty palm.

My head pops up to look at him, to make sure it's all _real_.

And he's _looking _at me, with that grin. That fucking sexy half grin. You know _exactly _the one I'm talking about.

Then he _winks _at me. He fucking _winks _at me!

Holy. Fucking. Hell.

I'm gonna fuck _The Precious._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Well, there it is. No sex (which is COMPLETELY out of my comfort zone, of course. I mean, I LOVE WRITING PORN!), unless you used your imagination, which I did. But the girl in **_**my **_**fantasy, was **_**me**_**, not M. I mean, I love her and all, but I don't want to imagine **_**her **_**and the Precious. I want to imagine ME and the Precious. Which I do. Often. And he's usually tying me up. Hence my story list.**

**This story is true, **_**mostly**_**. But this is **_**HER **_**story, not mine. **_**SHE **_**went to CC last summer. **_**SHE **_**was standing in line outside and got picked to meet the cast. **_**SHE **_**called me frantically to tell me about it. And then **_**SHE **_**met... him. Or "The Precious" as she referred to him on that memorable phone call. I was SO happy for her...**

**Unfortunately, he did NOT give her his phone number, and she didn't get to fuck him. That was just creative license.**

**However, I think her husband **_**MAY **_**have gotten lucky that night... just a guess. Nod and a wink to the fabulous Mr. MaBarberElla. :)**

**If you liked, leave me a review AND a birthday greeting for my friend. :)**

**And, stop by her FF profile and check out her story "The Cassolette," which is a companion piece to her one-shot "The Hummer." It's an UBER hot story about Daddy C (and who doesn't want to hit THAT?) obsessing over Bella, on the verge of losing control. MAJOR yummy and MAJOR hotness. (And then leave her a birthday review!)**

**M, hope it was good for you. Have a smoke. Then get the mister to play a couple of rounds of the "hot movie star and sexually permissive fan" game (kinda along the lines of "sailor on leave and girl at bar") and have a FABULOUS birthday, you amazing, witty, sharp, intelligent, ironic, and obscure woman... I love you.**

**PS - Thanks to my fabulous beta for emergency betaing this story so I could post it on M's birthday! Love you much much much Libby!**


End file.
